


Blaine Anderson's Epic Mixtape

by himbosamevans



Category: Glee
Genre: Fluff, M/M, MUST a fic have plot? is it not enough to write about blaine anderson comma in love?, Set in Season 3, aka quintessential glee, blaine is a hopeless romantic, mixtapes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24972088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/himbosamevans/pseuds/himbosamevans
Summary: “I’m going to make Kurt a mixtape,” Blaine says to the ceiling.“What?” Mike replies, not looking away from the screen. “Dude, I think people stopped making mixtapes in, like, the 90s.”
Relationships: Blaine Anderson/Kurt Hummel
Comments: 12
Kudos: 54





	Blaine Anderson's Epic Mixtape

**Author's Note:**

> *finishes this instead of doing any of my _much more pressing_ schoolwork*

Blaine’s favourite thing to do, aside from choreograph dance routines, hang out with Kurt, and watch early 00’s romcoms, is create banging playlists.

Blaine is sprawled on Mike’s bed, staring at the swirls in the plaster of the ceiling whilst Mike and Artie play Halo 4 on Mike’s xbox.

“I’m going to make Kurt a mixtape,” Blaine says to the ceiling.

“What?” Mike replies, not looking away from the screen. “Dude, I think people stopped making mixtapes in, like, the 90s.”

“Earlier than that,” Artie agrees, “that's super lame. Is he not putting out or something?”

“ _No_ , I just want to do something nice for him,” Blaine defends, sitting up on his elbows to glare at the back of their heads. “It’s _romantic_.”

“It’s weird,” Mike says, and Blaine feels a little stung. His idea really must be lame if Mike’s being snarky about it.

“I don’t care,” Blaine says, mostly for his own benefit, lying back down fully. “It’s exactly the kind of thing Kurt would find romantic. _Will_ find romantic.”

“Whatev,” Artie says, turning in his chair to throw the controller to Blaine. It hits him in the stomach. “Cover for me, I need to pee.”

“I don’t know what songs to put on it, is the only thing.” Blaine muses, sitting up properly and spinning his character around to get his bearings on the map.

“I can’t help you with that,” Mike shoots Blaine’s character in the back of the head, and it ragdolls to the floor as Blaine’s half of the screen dims. “I don’t really listen to lovey music, and Tina thinks that Fall Out Boy are twenty-first century poets.”

Blaine wants to defend Tina’s music taste, but he hasn’t really heard anything by Fall Out Boy. They sit in silence for a minute. “You’re gonna be no help with picking romantic songs, then?”

“Is he still talking about this?” Artie wheels himself back into the room.

Mike sighs, ignoring Artie. “I don’t know, Blaine; you’re the one who wanted to make a mixtape or whatever. Just choose a bunch of random love songs. I’m sure you can find ten articles compiling some online somewhere.”

“But they have to be _special_ ,” Blaine whines, the controller clicking as he smashes buttons in a 1v1 against Mike.

“Jesus, Blaine,” Artie throws his arms up in exasperation, “how hard can it be? Just burn a bunch of showtunes onto a CD and you’re done.”

“Kurt’s music taste is a little more _nuanced_ than that,” Blaine replies snarkily, even though he knows it isn’t really. He’s still going to defend Kurt’s honour.

“I don’t care. You’re distracted and it’s ruining my K-D. Give me the controller back.”

Blaine relents, rolling onto his stomach on the bed to watch them play.

“Maybe it should be less about what songs you like, and what songs you think Kurt would like,” Mike says over his shoulder, his eyes still trained on the TV as he hunts Blaine’s — no, Artie’s — character down.

“What songs Kurt would like,” Blaine repeats, nodding. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

*

The next time he brings it up, he’s at the Starbucks at the mall with Mercedes and Tina.

“I’m going to make Kurt a mixtape.” He says, and then he takes a sip of his coffee.

“Oh my god,” Tina says, looking like he just told her he’d made _her_ a mixtape, “that is just so romantic.”

“I just don’t know what music to put on it. Mike suggested I just make a compilation of songs Kurt likes.”

“Don’t listen to Mike,” Tina interrupts. “Mike sucks. That idea _sucks_.”

Blaine gives her a quizzical look, because, like, literally just an hour ago she was talking about how sweet Mike was.

“She’s right, boo.” Mercedes agrees, though she’s giving a side glance to Tina that suggests she and Blaine are having similar thoughts. “It shouldn’t just be what songs Kurt likes — though, maybe some of them, too — but he’ll find it more special if it’s songs _you_ love, and chose for him. Especially if they’re super romantic. He’ll be all moony eyed if he’s listening to them, picturing _you_ listening to them, thinking about him.”

Blaine just nods absent-mindedly. He still thinks making Kurt a mixtape will be super romantic, but he’s got all these conflicting opinions, and he can’t even ask _Kurt_ for advice, and he’s the most clear headed person Blaine knows. Maybe choosing the songs will be _much_ harder than he thought.

**1\. Can’t Help Falling in Love — Elvis Presley**

Despite his anxiety over difficulty finding appropriate songs, his first choice basically falls into his lap.

The inspiration strikes the next day, when he’s at Kurt’s house, watching Lilo & Stitch with him on Kurt’s little Samsung TV. Well, watching — Kurt is hand-sewing a new hem onto a sweater, cross-legged on his bed, whilst Blaine is lying on his stomach, copying notes from his Biology textbook into his notebook. The buzz of the television is serving as background noise to their comfortable silence.

“I love this scene,” Kurt says softly, his hand pausing in its stitching so that he can pay full attention to the TV.

“Hm?” Blaine looks up from his book to where Stitch is currently dancing across a sandy watercolour background as Elvis croons in the background.

“This is one of my favourite Disney movies.”

Blaine leans his head on one hand to look up at his boyfriend next to him. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Kurt replies, a little breathily, glancing away from the screen to look at Blaine. “I haven’t mentioned this before?”

“You probably have,” Blaine shrugs, following Kurt’s gaze back to the TV. “I can’t remember the last time I watched this movie in full.”

“Mm,” Kurt hums back noncommittally. “It was my mom’s favourite, too — because of all the Elvis. She used to play his records around the house all the time.”

“That’s sweet,” Blaine says, and he smiles down at his paper. “He reminds you of your mom?”

“Yeah,” Kurt says again, still watching the TV. Blaine continues smiling to himself as he makes a little note in his school planner.

*

That night, after he gets home at curfew, he continues down the hallway — past his bedroom door, past his parent’s bedroom, and past Cooper’s old room that is now a second study — to the end, where the attic is accessed through a trapdoor in the ceiling.

Up there, he knows, his dad keeps all of his old records in these big plastic crates they bought from IKEA. He can’t remember the full inventory perfectly, but he has one specific vinyl in mind that he remembers them packing away vividly.

*

“Blaine. What _is_ that?”

“It’s a record player!” He beams, gesturing to where it’s set up on his chest of drawers. It’s a small, portable thing that he received from his uncle last Christmas — he’s never really had an incentive to set it up, though. He didn’t receive any vinyls alongside it.

“Are you sure?” Kurt brings one appraising finger to touch at his chin thoughtfully — or maybe more judgementally.

Blaine feels his smile falter and he turns to look back at the player. Sure, it’s not the _prettiest_ thing in the world, but his uncle doesn’t have the eye for interior design that his mom has, and when he tested it an hour before Kurt came over he discovered that it’ll do it’s job _perfectly_ well.

“Just — I only got it out because there’s a record I want to play you. Cover your eyes.”

Kurt arches an eyebrow, but he’s betrayed by the small smile on his lips anyway. He brings his hands up to cover his eyes, still smiling bemusedly behind his wrists.

Blaine leans over to where the pre-picked vinyl has been leaning against the side of his dresser, just tucked around the corner so Kurt wouldn’t see and spoil the surprise. Blaine brushes his fingers over the paper cover as he picks it up, dusting off Elvis in his little red Hawaiian shirt, before sliding the vinyl out of the cover and placing it carefully on the platter, turning the knob until it spins slowly. He lifts the lever until the tone-arm rises, but he pushes it in further than the edge, counting the black lines of the vinyl until the needle hovers over the fifth song on the A side. He likes the whole album, really, but there’s a specific song he wants to play for Kurt.

There’s a crackle as he pushes the needle down, and then slow piano accompanied by Elvis’ crooning voice fills the room. When he turns back around, Kurt is already lowering his hands.

“Oh, Blaine,” Kurt whispers, and for a split second Blaine panics — you’re such an _idiot_ , he literally said Elvis reminds him of his _dead mother,_ and you thought it would be _romantic_ to play him an Elvis record? — but then Kurt is smiling, _beaming,_ and Blaine can feel his whole self relax, from his jaw to his shoulders to his toes. Kurt _likes_ it.

“Dance with me?” Blaine says, extending a hand towards where Kurt is perched on the edge of his bed, and Kurt blushes, all demure, taking his outstretched palm in his hand as he stands.

Blaine doesn’t know whether to lead or not, at first. He’s never really slow danced properly with someone, despite having a seemingly never ending queue of middle-aged lady partners at family weddings. He’d danced with Kurt at prom, sure, but earlier in the evening they’d stayed a good foot apart, and it couldn’t really be considered dancing more than it could be considered jumping up and down while their friends sang teen pop songs on the stage.

And later in the evening? To be honest, it wasn’t really slow dancing. It was far too jaunty. Was it probably the most romantic thing he’s ever participated in? Sure, and he’s proud of it, and he treasures the memory, but it was as silly to cheer Kurt up as it was romantic.

He doesn’t really feel anything silly about this moment right now.

Kurt stumbles a little on the lip of the rug as he moves towards him, and Blaine wraps his arms around his waist instinctively to balance him, and then everything else seems to click into place.

Kurt smiles, stepping forward into Blaine’s space, and then he wraps his arms around Blaine’s shoulders and — wow, slow dancing is really easy, actually.

He tugs Kurt in a little closer, bringing his hands up to hold the small of his back, and he turns his head to rest his cheek against the top of Kurt’s shoulder as they sway slowly. Blaine can suddenly, totally get why slow dancing was such a big deal for Amy Adams at the end of _Enchanted_.

**2. ~~I Want Your Love — CHIC~~**

“I _hate_ disco,” Kurt complains, sliding his tray onto the table opposite Blaine and sitting on the bench.

“I love disco,” Blaine replies, tilting his head. “Why do you hate it?”

“It’s awful,” Kurt laments, picking up a fork and spearing a salad leaf, “every time I hear it being played it’s like a hate crime on my ears.”

“That’s a little melodramatic,” Blaine says, frowning. “I bet a lot of songs you love are disco, and you don’t even realise it. Like,” he picks at his curly fries as he speaks, “literally, last week, we were listening to _Sister Sledge_ in the car.”

“That’s because you were already playing your CD on your way to pick me up,” Kurt seems to disregard his salad, leaning over and stealing a fry from Blaine’s plate, “and the only time I’ll tolerate disco is when you’re singing along to it. ‘Cause you’re so cute.”

“Really?” Blaine grins, momentarily forgetting what he was defending. Then he frowns. “You only said that to distract me.”

“No I didn’t,” Kurt says, even though he definitely did.

“Uh, yeah, you did,” Blaine shakes his head, stabbing at Kurt’s encroaching hand with his fork. “Stop, just get fries next time. And, yeah, you did — you always do this. You know I’m right so you compliment me and then I concede and say _you’re_ right.”

“Or, you just know deep down that I’m right,” Kurt grabs a fry anyway, “anyways, that’s what makes us such a power couple. Our dynamic. That you can admit when I’m right.”

Blaine smiles despite himself at that. “You think we’re a power couple?”

“I _know_ we’re a power couple. We run that damn glee club. Finn and Rachel wish they had what we have.” Kurt has progressed to dipping his fries in Blaine’s ketchup before he steals them. “I’m pretty sure we’re the only ones in there who haven’t cheated on each other or broken up for a day or something.”

“ _Stop_ ,” Blaine considers stealing a crouton or something from Kurt’s salad to prove a point, “but you are right about that.” He raises an eyebrow at Kurt’s smug smile, “And, you know, one of these days I’m gonna get you to love disco just as much as I do.”

“You know what, Blaine? I would _love_ to see you try.”

Blaine decides to take that as a challenge.

*

The next Thursday, Blaine is sitting in the back row of the choir room, his arm slung around the back of Kurt’s chair, when Mr Schuester walks in. Blaine’s hand shoots up from where it’s resting immediately.

“Uh, yes, Blaine?” Mr Schue seems a little startled; it kind of makes sense, considering Blaine normally stays at the back trying to look as non-judgemental as possible to balance Kurt out. Mr Schue pauses where he’s assembling a stack of sheet music on the piano to wait for his response.

“Today I’d like to express myself through song.” Blaine tries to ignore the incredulous look Kurt is giving him from beside him.

“Er, okay?”

“And also, to share the magic of disco with some of our glee club’s _less enlightened_ members,” Blaine adds with a pointed look at Kurt, getting up and hopping down the bleachers. He looks back up when he’s at the bottom and Mr Schue’s eyes are positively sparkling.

“Wh — okay, sure. That’s a brilliant idea. I’ll just —“ Mr Schue takes a seat at the front, next to Brittany, and gestures with one hand to the centre of the room.

Blaine beams. He has the perfect song; and if Kurt likes it, he’ll get to add it to his playlist. It’s not just the perfect song, it’s the perfect _plan_.

It kind of goes off without a hitch, too; he gets a few lines in before Mercedes is pulling Brittany up to dance and sing backup, and then Rachel is bouncing out of her chair to try and pull focus, and he gets to throw some sheet music in the air and jump on some furniture and it’s just all around _amazing_.

“That was really good,” Kurt hums as Blaine sits back in the chair next to him, panting and grinning.

“Really? You liked it?”

“Oh, no. I hated every second.” Blaine can literally feel his face fall, but Kurt just stays smiling coyly. “But I liked that _you_ did it.”

“That’s not romantic. That’s mean. You can’t worm your way out of this by being all coquettish and cute.”

“I’m not _trying_ to be coquettish and cute, I just am,” Kurt leans forward and takes Blaine’s hand in his, pulling it into his lap and brushing his thumb over the back of it as he speaks. “You sounded amazing, Blaine, that much is obvious. But I’m always going to hate disco. It’s like, part of my DNA or something.”

Blaine huffs and rolls his eyes, but he’s not upset, not really. There’s so many good things about Kurt that outweigh the bad — and if one of the bad things is that he doesn’t like disco, and one of the good things is that he’s in love with Blaine, then that’s entirely liveable.

In all truth, maybe Kurt was right, after all; one of the best parts of Kurt and Blaine's relationship is that he can concede when Kurt is right. And, really, he's sure Kurt will concede when Blaine is right, too — they’re both just waiting on it to happen.

**3\. 18 — One Direction**

Kurt is practically vibrating as they stand in line to enter the concert venue.

“I honestly really don’t see the appeal.” Blaine folds his arms, glancing up at the giant banners above their heads; Niall and Harry are gazing down on their group benevolently.

“Are you insane, Blaine Anderson? Are you _blind_? Or just stupid?” Rachel snaps suddenly.

“Yeah, who even are you? I feel like I don’t even know you.” Blaine turns at the second voice, blinking incredulously at Kurt.

“Wow. Once again, I am attacked simply for presenting new ideas.”

“They’re not new ideas. They’re stupid. Why are you even here?” Rachel seems to direct her fury into smoothing her skirt, fixing one of the skewered tartan pleats.

“Wh — I bought the tickets, Rachel. For Kurt’s birthday?”

“And?” Rachel has begun picking at the stitching on the hem of her skirt angrily, and Kurt slaps her hand away. Blaine rolls his eyes, choosing not to respond. What is taking Tina so long to buy merch? He needs another sane person with him right now.

*

Blaine still doesn’t understand the appeal when they’re packed in like sardines in the hot middle of a sea of teenage girls. He doesn’t understand the appeal when Rachel grabs one of his hands and tugs him after Kurt and Tina through the knots of people to the side of a vaguely phallic centre walkway. He doesn’t understand the appeal when the opening act bounce off of the stage, and the lights dim and raise again as _the_ One Direction dash out, already singing and waving. He understands the appeal a little bit when Harry runs down the centre walkway, eyes on the crowd, and reaches one outstretched hand towards their group, but he pushes that feeling down. He doesn’t understand the appeal when halfway through the concert they just give up on unchoreographed dancing and sit on stools for a few of the slower songs.

That night he understands the appeal a little bit more when he goes back over the setlist Tina posts on her twitter, and one song especially resonates him. Mostly because he can relate to finding your soulmate as a teenager.

He plays the song back a few times on his laptop, and he sits and he smiles and he thinks of Kurt.

**4\. Woman — John Lennon**

Kurt is _not_ a woman. Blaine knows that. He appreciates it, actually, in more ways than one — he loves Kurt for his personality, of course, but he’s just so beautiful, and so utterly male when Blaine’s underneath him, pulling at his shoulders and dragging his palms across the expansive planes of Kurt’s back. He’s kind of perfect.

“Do you think Kurt would be offended if I put John Lennon’s _Woman_ on my mixtape for him?” Blaine says to Tina as he lays on the couch in her basement. She’s sitting on the floor across from him, leaning against the base of an armchair and proofreading his history essay for him. He’s doodling little KHs in the margin of his math quiz homework while he waits.

“Why would he be offended?” Tina shifts to look at him properly, revealing the front of the lined paper in her lap, and Blaine winces at the amount of red crossings out she’s marked on his draft.

“Because he’s not a woman.” Blaine shrugs sheepishly. Maybe it was a stupid question; he’s sure some of the other songs he’s already chosen for the playlist were written for women — they just weren’t as explicit about it.

Tina flicks her bangs out of her face with a turn of her head. “I sing songs to Mike all the time that were written about women. It doesn’t matter. It’s just a love song.”

He nods contemplatively; Kurt and Blaine both know that Kurt is a man, and they both know that he’s perfectly comfortable in that. He might not want to be a woman, but that doesn’t mean he’s so insecure in his masculinity that he’d be offended by a song called Woman on a romantic playlist crafted for him. In all honesty, he’s probably more secure in his masculinity than all the other guys in Glee club.

Blaine thinks about the beginning of Tina’s sentence and he sits up a little more. “You sing songs to Mike? Like what?”

She smiles, but then narrows her eyes at him. “You just want more ideas for your playlist. Nuh-uh.”

Blaine grins back at her, and doesn’t deny it. Tina Cohen-Chang is starting to know him too well.

**5\. Michelle — The Beatles**

Kurt has always been a little overly invested in his AP French class. Even more so now, though, than usual.

His grandma, on his mom’s side, was fluent in French, he remarks to Blaine one evening, and she would try to teach him the basics whenever she babysat him — _chat, chien, haute couture_ — so he’s always naturally been interested, even more so when it became a class option in middle school. He’s damn near fluent, sometimes, muttering under his breath clear sentences while he highlights handouts or answers questions from his textbook. Blaine’s seen him reading full books in French, too, breezing through them like they’re nothing, drumming his fingers on the glossy pages of a Parisian copy of _Vogue_.

Blaine has personally never seen the appeal — he’s more of an Italian guy himself, language of love and all that — but he’ll readily be the first to admit that Kurt speaking French? It’s kinda hot.

Therefore, all things considered, it really shouldn’t concern Blaine that Kurt’s French class seems to be taking up more and more of his time recently. It shouldn’t even occur to him, or seem out of character for Kurt.

But there’s a new French teacher. And Blaine hates him.

Madame Faust is off for the foreseeable future with maternity leave, so some bright-faced, fresh-out-of-college trainee has stepped in to take over her class.

In all truth, the first time Blaine sees him in the corridor, he thinks he’s an exceptionally dressed transfer — Blaine is still one of the few members of the McKinley student body who takes it upon himself to wear cardigans to school, so he _should_ get along well with anyone who shares his appreciation for ties. He’s feeling pretty optimistic about the whole thing.

He sees him for the second time on his way to pick Kurt up from his French class, so they can walk to the canteen together for their lunch period. He’s leaning against the doorway of the classroom, chatting to Kurt, laughing and gesturing with his hands. Kurt beams, clutching his French textbooks closer to his chest, before nodding and turning away. His smile brightens even more when he sees Blaine approaching them, which makes Blaine feel a little smug inside — yeah, he’s the one who makes Kurt smile like that, it’s still kind of awesome — and Blaine adjusts his messenger bag, opening his arms to take Kurt’s textbooks from him as they walk.

“The new kid is in your French class?” Blaine asks, adjusting the books in his arms as they turn down the hallway.

“New kid? Which new kid?” Kurt tilts his head, angling his body slightly to look at Blaine. Blaine frowns.

“What? The new kid you were just talking to.”

It’s Kurt’s turn to look confused for a second, before he laughs, light and airy. “Oh, him? He’s not a _new kid_. That’s Monsieur Carlson. He’s my French sub for the rest of the semester.”

Blaine feels his cheeks flush a little — he feels a little embarrassed by how obvious Kurt made his mistake seem. “He’s a teacher? He looks younger.”

Kurt sighs dreamily. “Yeah, he does, doesn’t he? I think he’s on some trainee program. He was telling me about how he just finished his French Studies degree at college.”

“So what you’re saying is he isn’t fit to teach.” Blaine shifts the books in his arms again, frowning harder.

Kurt snorts a laugh. “That’s harsh. He’s lovely, and really engaging. Oh, hey — how did your math quiz go?”

Blaine lets himself be distracted by retelling the intricacies of his math quiz, because he, admittedly, did kind of do amazing on it, and Kurt will let him humble-brag about it for an appropriate length of time. Whatever. Who cares about French substitute teachers anyway?

*

Blaine cares about French substitute teachers.

“I know!” Tina nods her agreement enthusiastically, waving a tater tot around in her hand as she speaks. “And when he recited that line from that French poem, and he looked _so proud_ , like — butter _literally_ wouldn’t melt in his mouth.”

Kurt just grins back at her, not expressing his affection for Monsieur Carlson quite so animatedly, but he’s been happily talking away about how cute his French teacher is with Tina for, like, 80 percent of their lunch period, so it’s pretty obvious he agrees with what she’s saying. Blaine turns back to his salad, and he stabs at a romaine leaf with his fork. He pictures Monsieur Carlson’s face.

“I’m just glad we have a teacher who can actually tell us how to conjugate verbs. I think Madame Faust just took one look at the _Mrs Vandertramp_ method and ran with it, forgetting that it doesn’t apply to the vast majority of the French language.” Kurt continues with a side-eye to Blaine, popping a fry in his mouth.

Tina scoffs. “Like _you’re_ really invested in improving in French class, Kurt. You’ve been top of our class for forever.”

“Maybe so,” Kurt says archly, but it’s teasing and proud. “I’m not denying there are _other_ benefits to having Monsieur Carlson as a teacher.” Tina giggles. Blaine stabs at his salad again.

What can Monsieur Carlson do that Blaine can’t? Blaine wears cardigans. Blaine wears boat shoes. Blaine can lean on doorways — though, maybe he can’t touch the top of them. Blaine could speak French.

Yeah — Blaine _could_ speak French.

*

“I have a surprise for you,” Blaine says a few days later, as they leave the Lima Bean after a study date. The night is just starting to set in the air, the sky a moody orange above them as they walk back to Kurt’s car.

“Please don’t serenade me right now,” Kurt says, turning his head to look at Blaine, wide-eyed. “I’m tired, and I just wanna go back to mine and watch bad reality TV with you before curfew.”

“What? That wasn’t —“ Blaine shakes his head, but he makes a mental note to not serenade Kurt on evenings. “No. I have a different surprise.”

They stop in front of Kurt’s car, and Blaine sighs nervously, rubbing his hands on his jeans. It’s now or never.

“ _Bonjour, ma chèrie,_ ” Blaine says in his best French accent.

“ _Ma?_ ” Kurt repeats, raising an eyebrow. “Blaine, why are you speaking French? Is your surprise that you have discovered the existence of the French language?”

“Uh, _parce que — je suis_ romantic.” Shit. He forgot the French word for romantic.

“You know French for romantic is just _romantique_ , right? You couldn’t have guessed?” Kurt is still raising one quizzical eyebrow, but the corners of his lips are quirked in an amused smile, so Blaine is going to take that as encouragement.

“ _Je t’aime. Beaucoup. Alors, je —_ studiato _— les français pour vous._ ” Did he just go Italian in the middle of that sentence? This is going terribly.

“Blaine,” Kurt waves one hand in front of him, like he’s snapping Blaine out of hypnosis or something, “Stop. Just stop. Tell me why you’re speaking French — tell me _really_ why — and tell me in English, this time.”

Blaine considers for a second just continuing with some of the French sentences he learned last night, but Kurt still looks more amused than charmed. He decides to concede, even though he didn’t really get far in at all. Three measly sentences. He’d prepared at least six.

“Because — I thought you’d find it sexy.”

“What?” Kurt just looks baffled now, “Why do you feel like you have to prove that to me? When did I ever give you the impression that you’re not sexy? Because I’m pretty sure that couldn’t have been me. That must’ve been my evil twin or something.”

“Because you’re like — _infatuated_ with that new, young French teacher.” Blaine can feel his cheeks getting hotter, and he ducks his head, scuffing the tip of his shoe into the parking lot tarmac.

“What — _Monsieur Carlson?_ Are you joking?” When Blaine doesn’t reply, Kurt takes his fingers and tips Blaine’s head up so that he can meet his eyes. “Blaine. I love you, but you’re ridiculous. Monsieur Carlson is cute, sure, but he’s a lot of things you’re not.” At Blaine’s devastated expression, he continues, rolling his eyes. “In a _bad way_. He’s old — he’s like _twenty-four_. He’s from Kentucky. He can’t sing or dance. He doesn’t have gorgeous curly hair that he styles like Gene Kelly.” Kurt’s hand trails from Blaine’s chin to his cheek, where he smooths a few spare baby-hairs that have curled at the side of his hairline. “He doesn’t make me laugh everyday. He isn’t the most thoughtful, earnest, brave, handsome, talented man I’ve ever met. That’s _you_ , Blaine. You don’t need to learn French for me to love you, or for me to find you sexy, ‘cause that stuff just comes naturally to me. From you being _you._ I love _you._ ”

The worry in the pit of Blaine’s stomach has lifted and abated with every word of Kurt’s, and he nuzzles his cheek into Kurt’s palm as he speaks, smiling sappily. He turns and presses a kiss to Kurt’s hand, the centre of his palm, and then he takes his wrist and kisses there, right at the tendon.

“I love you, too.” He whispers against the skin, and when he looks up Kurt is looking back at him just as tenderly.

Kurt leans in for a kiss — it’s chaste, because as intimate as the moment _is_ , they’re still in a parking lot, in Lima, Ohio — but when he pulls back, he whispers: “Besides; I’ve always found Italian to be the sexier sounding language.”

Blaine grins back. Kurt is _seriously_ amazing. And learning French _sucks._

**6\. F**kin’ Perfect — P!nk**

Blaine wrinkles his nose as soon as he opens the car door, and by the time he’s fully seated in the passenger seat, he’s close to making faux-gagging noises.

“What’s wrong?” Kurt is watching him cautiously with a frown, tapping the balls of his hands on the steering wheel absent-mindedly, and Blaine gestures vaguely at the car radio. “What?”

“This _song,_ ” Blaine says finally, looking between Kurt and the radio. “It’s terrible.”

“What? What are you talking about? You love Pink _._ ”

“Says who?” Blaine asks a little defensively, crossing his arms over himself. He doesn’t like Pink more than the usual person. He definitely doesn’t like _this_ Pink song.

Kurt looks at him incredulously, and then starts ticking off points on his fingers. “Well, you were rehearsing _Funhouse_ to perform in Glee last time I was at your house, you’ve been obsessed with _Lady Marmalade,_ specifically _Pink’s_ verse, ever since I introduced you to _Moulin Rouge!_ and — are we really going to forget about _Raise Your Glass_? Seriously?”

“Okay, you’ve made your point,” Blaine replies bitterly, still glowering at the car console. “This song is still awful, though.”

“I like it. It’s a positive message.”

“Only because it has the most on-the-nose lyrics I’ve literally ever heard in my life,” Blaine scoffs. “I could write better in my sleep. They’re terrible.”

Kurt is still frowning, but now he looks a little — embarrassed? Now it’s Blaine’s turn to be confused.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me,” Blaine says, leaning forward to try and look at Kurt’s face, which he’s turned away in shame. “Oh my god, tell me. What is it?”

Kurt looks back at him, his cheeks a little red, and he laughs in a self-mocking way. “Don’t judge me.”

“What?”

Kurt bites his lip, and then he looks away again. “I sing this song in the car all the time.”

“ _What?_ ” Blaine says, and he can feel a laugh bubbling in his throat. Not a _mean_ laugh — God forbid — but just because Kurt is so cute, so sweet and everyday Blaine gets to experience it in new ways.

“Don’t judge me!” Kurt repeats, but when he turns to look at Blaine, he’s grinning, too. “I know it’s dorky.”

“That’s adorable.”

“Shut up.”

“ _You’re_ adorable.” Blaine grins, and he reaches across the centre console to grab Kurt’s hand. “My boyfriend is literally the most adorable man in North America. I’m so lucky.”

“Shut up,” Kurt says, but he’s beaming too, because there’s something so silly and fun about the moment. Something intimate, too — like, it’s not a big deal that Kurt’s told him this, not really. It’s not a big secret. But it’s special, and it’s mundane, and it’s only between the two of them.

The next time the song comes on the radio, Blaine is the one driving, and he turns it up with a grin at Kurt, and they sing it to each other on their way to get coffee.

**7\. Come What May — Moulin Rouge!**

It’s movie night at the Hummel-Hudsons. Crowded into Kurt’s living room is what feels like half the glee club; Blaine, Mike, Rachel, Finn, and Tina. Half of that population is currently on the verge of tears as Ewan McGregor and Nicole Kidman spin around on screen, singing _Come What May_.

“You know,” Kurt says from where he’s curled into Blaine’s side, his voice a little thick, “when Blaine and I get married, this is going to be the song for our first dance.” Blaine has had zero input on this.

“ _When_?” echoes Finn, craning his neck from the floor to look at them.

“Yes,” Kurt replies, quickly, “we’ll probably sing it, too. Singing that song to someone is more intimate than sex.”

“Gross,” Finn mutters, and Blaine doesn’t have to look to know Kurt is rolling his eyes.

“ _When_ we get married?” Blaine parrots Finn’s earlier thought a few minutes later, lowering his voice so that only Kurt can hear. Kurt looks up from where he’s cuddled into his neck, smiling a little. “Isn’t that a little presumptuous?”

“What, you don’t think we’ll get married one day?” Kurt shifts fully to look at his face, his eyebrows knitted together.

“Oh, I _know_ we’ll get married one day. I’m just glad we’re on the same page.”

Kurt beams at him, and leans up to kiss him softly, which is amazing in and of itself considering how anti-PDA Kurt can be, but the fact that it was his response to the idea of marriage? — literally _amazing_. Blaine knows they’re only seventeen, and maybe he’s still too young to know many truths about love — but he also knows Kurt is his soulmate. That’s not really something that comes with experience, he doesn’t think. He can just tell.

There are few things Blaine would enjoy more than watching Moulin Rouge! with his best friends, but the idea of marrying Kurt manages to occupy his thoughts for the rest of the evening.

**8\. Teenage Dream — Katy Perry**

“Do you remember the first time we met?” Blaine is lying on the Hummel-Hudson’s couch, his head in Kurt’s lap whilst they watch Project Runway.

“Of course I do,” Kurt replies, not looking away from the screen, continuing to card his fingers through Blaine’s hair, freshly de-gelled from his shower.

“Do you remember what song I was singing?”

“No,” Kurt deadpans, tearing his eyes from the TV when Blaine shifts to look up at him from his lap. “Wow, no need to look so forlorn. I’m obviously kidding — _Teenage Dream_.”

“ _Teenage Dream_ ,” Blaine repeats, smiling softly.

“You _were_ pretty dreamy,” Kurt brushes his fingers across Blaine’s forehead, tucking a few stray curls away. “I couldn’t believe my luck when I found out you were gay.” He scoffs, “Little did I know, it’d take you two months to like me back.”

“I think I loved you from the moment I met you,” Blaine says quietly, “I just didn’t realise it until I saw you sing _Blackbird_.”

“That is such a line,” Kurt murmurs, but his face is open with emotion and he’s smiling back at Blaine.

“Nuh-uh. It’s not a line if I mean it. And I mean it.” Blaine sits up a little more. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Finding songs for his playlist wasn’t too hard, after all. Not when everything around him reminds him of Kurt in all the best ways. 

**Author's Note:**

> i compiled blaine's playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2dfYQQLXtifaJpKTI7u9vz?si=qVqmR-0bRmOtJjGM0PNbaQ) but... all things considered... blaine sucks at making playlists cause it's kind of wack to listen to. yes that's a self own  
> also i KNOW in accordance w the timeline blaine couldn't have put 18 by 1d on there because it literally hadn't been written yet but... it's _such_ a klaine song, ugh. please suspend your disbelief? <:)
> 
> p.s literally nobody asked, but while working on this fic, i finished my own klaine playlist! im just gonna shamelessly plug it [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5pSvJh4LXV3b4zlHDP0C68?si=lZiukr0UTAiJ_wK04zlQKg) because i have literally nowhere else to put it. once again, it's kind of wack and all over the place, and some of the song choices will probably only make sense to me, but if you wanted to know what songs make me think of klaine (you didn't) -- there u go :D
> 
> kudos + comments always always always appreciated :)  
> find me on tumblr: himbosamevans.tumblr.com


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